The Lover's Children

Chapter 38 – The Idylls of March #10

MICHAEL

Charlotte obeys, opening her mouth. Emerald eyes roll up to meet mine, the green shade intense,

almost iridescent. Grabbing both her wrists into one hand, I shove between her teeth then, easing in

and out, enjoy the contrast of the deep red of my shaft rimmed by the pale rose of her lips.

I'm streaming, so withdrawing for a moment, I swipe myself over her mouth and face, leaving shiny

stripes of pre-cum to glisten on her skin.

She’s getting noisier, always a good sign, and I strain to see what James is doing: nibbling on her clit, I

think, finger-fucking her as he does so. Even if I didn’t want Charlotte’s mouth open, I doubt it would be

closed as she twitches and whimpers.

The whimpers grow to moans. The twitching grows to shaking. She gasps and bucks, then with a

shriek, spasms into orgasm…

That’ll do…

…

Fuck…

In under two seconds I go from controlled to inevitable. Balls tightening, groin tensing, I shoot,

creaming into her still wailing mouth and over her tongue. A little cum escapes to dribble from the

corner of her lips. Another shot… And a third…

… And I’m finished…

For now…

James glances up… “You done?”

“Yup.”

… then swipes over his mouth and chin. “You’re taking both of us, Charlotte.” As he rises, he’s already

unzipping, releasing his cock. “Open wide.” He’s equally trigger-happy. Hands gripping into her hair, he

pumps her. Less than a minute and, with a suppressed growl, he blows, withdrawing to spurt onto her

face.

Done, he stands back, rezippering. “Nothing like a quickie when you’re in the mood.”

*****

GEORGIE

I check my watch.

Only fifteen minutes…

Maybe the traffic is bad…

The barman cocks a brow at my empty glass, and I push it across the counter for a refill. The door

swings wide and I crane to see, but it’s not Borje. Only some stranger bringing the chill night air in with

him.

You wouldn’t stand me up…

Would you?

Plenty of others have…

My arms goose and a frisson shivers through me. The strappy top I’m wearing looks good, showing off

my shoulders and neckline, but perhaps wasn’t the best choice for the weather.

Sitting alone, bored and waiting, then worried and waiting, perhaps I drink more quickly than I should.

I’ve almost emptied my glass again, and now my watch tells me Borje is thirty minutes overdue.

The door swings wide and Borje, flush-faced, hair tousled, all but sprints inside. “Georgie, I…”

“You're late.” I snap the words, then could bite off my own tongue…

He stalls, his face very bland, voice very calm. “My apologies, Georgie. I was held up at work. It's been

a long day.”

I brandish my phone. “You might have messaged me.”

“I tried. But I was on the subway.”

As though on cue, the mobile vibes in my hand, then Pings. Incoming message…

sorry held up on my way

… and a timestamp from twenty minutes ago. Borje’s eyes ping pong between the phone and my face.

His voice acid, “Believe me now?”

“Um… Yes. Sorry.” I swallow with a throat too dry. Swallow again: a gulp of my too-strong gin ‘n T…

Calm down…

The barman slides a bowl of peanuts between us. “Can I get you something, sir?”

Irritation ripples through Borje’s voice. “No, thank you. I…”

Something like panic rips at me. “Borje, I’m sorry. I spoke out of turn. I shouldn’t have. Please don’t

walk out on me.”

“What makes you think I was planning to walk out?”

“We’re at a bar. You don’t want a drink.”

His eyes crinkle. “Ah, yes. I see how that would look.” Swiping a hand through his hair, he looks back to

me, a smile ghosting at his lips. “What is it that brings out the temper in both of us? Georgie, I repeat,

my apologies for being late. It was absolutely not my intention. Now… Perhaps could we start the

evening over?”

How can I not smile? This beautiful man, asking for my company.

I want you…

And I think you want me…

I hope.

I hope…

“Perhaps we should.” I slide off my bar stool, tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Good evening, Borje. It’s lovely

to see you.”

“Good evening, Georgie. And you’re looking lovely too.” He gestures to the door. “Shall we?”

“We’re not staying?”

“I simply asked you to meet me here. I didn’t want you standing out in the cold in case I… um… ran

late.”

And feeling like the complete bitch I just showed myself to be, I follow him out.

*****

Double doors swing open, and a solo sax purrs its melody over the floor. Borje holds one door aside,

standing back to let me through. “I hope you like my choice of venue. I enjoy music, but I also enjoy

conversation. I don’t care for the places where the sound levels blast your eardrums and jellify your

brain.”

“Sounds good to me.”

We’re booked in at the Blue Cat Club for the evening, a venue I know by reputation for live music, but

have never visited. A server shows us to a table to the edge of the room, with a good view of the band,

but not so close as to be deafened by the music.

Borje holds out my seat, sliding it behind me as I sit. “You like jazz?” Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

“Yes, sure.” Then feeling sheepish, “Some jazz,” I admit. “A lot of it sounds to me more like a dozen

guys tuning up their instruments.”

He chuckles. “I get that. I prefer a touch more melody myself.”

“You come here a lot?”

“Fairly regularly. They serve the meal throughout the evening, spreading out the courses so you can

mix eating with conversation and dancing.”

“It sounds as though you’ve brought a few of your girlfriends here?” Then, cursing myself, wish I could

swallow the words whole.

Borje gives me an old look, then, “Ah, here's the wine. And we'll order, shall we. They do a lobster

bisque to die for. I'll start with that."

"I'll have that too, then."

*****

Borje was right about the food. The bisque smells of heaven in a bowl. Rich and creamy, succulent and

savoury, fragrant with some herb…

Dill, maybe?

The bread is warm, crusty and obviously homemade.

And yet, my date seems subdued. Borje picks at his bread, stirs the exquisite soup around the bowl,

not eating. And now, sitting close, surreptitiously assessing him, I see the stress lines written into his

face.

"You look a bit tired. Are you alright?"

He shakes himself wide-eyed. "Sorry, I’m being rude, aren’t I. Um... Rough day at work." He makes a

show of spooning up some soup.

“Must have been. Actually, you don’t look just a bit tired. You look beat. Mice could hide in the shadows

under your eyes.” He doesn’t seem to know what to say to that… “I… didn’t mean to upset you before.

Really, I didn’t.”

“You haven’t upset me.” He gives a shake of the head, sharp with surprise. “Not at all, Georgie. I’ve

been looking forward to this evening.”

The band abruptly changes rhythm, a foot-tapping beat now, fast and furious. I don’t know the piece,

but Borje breaks into a smile. “Ah, one of my favourites.” His enthusiasm returns and he bites into a

bread roll.

*****

The waiter clears our soup bowls. “Your main course will be about thirty minutes,” he announces. “Can

I get you anything while you’re waiting?”

“No, we’re fine, thank you.” Borje gestures out over the floor. “Georgie, would you like to dance?”

“I’d love to. But I’m not very good.”

“All the more reason to practice.”

As we make our way to the dance floor, the melody changes again, now smooth, soft and slow. The

subdued golden lighting softens Borje’s grey eyes. Pinwheels in red and blue and green glint and

gleam, cavorting across the room, dancing over his frosty hair.

We move together, his body near mine, but not too close, one hand barely resting at my waist, the

other touching at the narrow strap at my shoulder. His breath kisses my cheek, then my ear; a soft

caress that sends heat slamming at my chest, racing through my belly, my core.

The brief taste of him is raw… Primal…

I want more…

“I won’t bite.”

Borje blinks. “Bite?”

“You barely touch me.”

He pauses, pulls away a little, enough to meet my eyes. “You haven’t given me permission to touch

you.”

“Permission? You need permission?”

He clucks. “Yes, I need permission. What kind of men have you dated before, Georgie? The sort who

assume that because you agree to share wine and food with them, you have agreed to share

everything? The whole of yourself?”

“Um… I suppose…” I dry up. Flummoxed, I don’t know what to say.

“You have allowed me to dance with you, Georgie. I do not assume that means you have consented to

more than that.”

I’m lost for words. Almost any other date I’ve ever had, by this stage he’d have had one arm wrapped

around my waist pulling me in and the other headed south for my ass.

And the memories I keep so carefully suppressed, emerge from their squalid depths: unwelcome

guests at any time, certainly now. I never think about it. Never let myself dwell on it, on what happened.

Luke…

Lucas Baxter…

I thought he liked me. He charmed me…

By the time I realised the truth, it was too late.

Tied…

Helpless…

Staked out on the bed like a skin spread out to dry in the heat…

Pleading for them to release me…

They would have raped me…

The recollection burns a trail through my thoughts but firmly I push it back where it belongs, into the

dark…

I resurface. How long? Perhaps a second or two has passed.

In any case, Borje hasn’t noticed my lapse. “What must you think of the male species, Georgie? To

assume that I would behave so.”

It takes a few seconds for me to work up saliva to speak. “For the avoidance of doubt, you have my

permission to touch me.”

His smile is like a slow bright dawn. “That’s good. Thank you, Georgie.” The hand at my waist slides

around and tightens. The one at my shoulder shifts to rest, warm and welcome, on my skin. A little

taller than me, he rests his cheek at my temple.

And we move together to the melody. Soft. Smooth. Slow.

“You smell good,” he murmurs.

“So do you.” I say it from reflex, then realise it’s not quite true. Borje does smell good, the scent of

clean male. A touch of some body splash with the tang of green tea and pine.

But there’s something else. Just a whiff.

There...

And then gone.

What was that?